word to say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to go
strolling with a knapsack.

An Englishman has always special facilities for intercourse with
French gymnasts; for England is the natural home of gymnasts. This

or that fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a word
or two of English, to have drunk English AFF-'N-AFF, and perhaps

performed in an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by
profession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to the notion

that I must be an athlete myself.
But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture

of the artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian,
for the most part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and

does not accustom him to high ideas. But if a man is only so much
of an actor that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free of

a new order of thoughts. He has something else to think about
beside the money-box. He has a pride of his own, and, what is of

far more importance, he has an aim before him that he can never
quite attain. He has gone upon a pilgrimage that will last him his

life long, because there is no end to it short of perfection. He
will better upon himself a little day by day; or even if he has

given up the attempt, he will always remember that once upon a time
he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he had

fallen in love with a star. ''Tis better to have loved and lost.'
Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endymion, although

he should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think
he would move with a better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to

the end? The louts he meets at church never had a fancy above
Audrey's snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heart

that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty.
To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a

man's countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn
at Chateau Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others

well-to-do peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse,
whose face stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It looked

more finished; more of the spirit looked out through it; it had a
living, expressive air, and you could see that his eyes took things

in. My companion and I wondered greatly who and what he could be.
It was fair-time in Chateau Landon, and when we went along to the

booths, we had our question answered; for there was our friend
busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He was a wandering

violinist.
A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, in

the department of Seine et Marne. There was a father and mother;
two daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without

an idea of how to set about either; and a dark young man, like a
tutor, a recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.

The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius can be
spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompetent humbugs; and

her husband could not find words to express his admiration for her
comic countryman. 'You should see my old woman,' said he, and

nodded his beery countenance. One night they performed in the
stable-yard, with flaring lamps - a wretchedexhibition, coldly

looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon as the
lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had to

sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the
barn where they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless. In the

morning, a dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart for
strollers as I have myself, made a little collection, and sent it

by my hands to comfort them for their disappointment. I gave it to
the father; he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in

the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard times.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. 'I

am afraid,' said he, 'that Monsieur will think me altogether a
beggar; but I have another demand to make upon him.' I began to

hate him on the spot. 'We play again to-night,' he went on. 'Of
course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur and

his friends, who have been already so liberal. But our programme
of to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea

that Monsieur will honour us with his presence.' And then, with a
shrug and a smile: 'Monsieur understands - the vanity of an

artist!' Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is the
kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling,

incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the
vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly
two years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him

often again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on the
breakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of bright

days:
'MESDAMES ET MESSIEURS,

'MADEMOISELLE FERRARIO ET M. DE VAUVERSIN AURONT L'HONNEUR DE
CHANTER CE SOIR LES MORCEAUX SUIVANTS.

'MADERMOISELLE FERRARIO CHANTERA - MIGNON - OISEAUX LEGERS - FRANCE
- DES FRANCAIS DORMENT LA - LE CHATEAU BLEU - OU VOULEZ-VOUS ALLER?

'M. DE VAUVERSIN - MADAME FONTAINE ET M. ROBINET - LES PLONGEURS A
CHEVAL - LE MARI MECONTENT - TAIS-TOI, GAMIN - MON VOISIN

L'ORIGINAL - HEUREUX COMME CA - COMME ON EST TROMPE.'
They made a stage at one end of the SALLE-A-MANGER. And what a

sight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a cigarette in his mouth,
twanging a guitar, and following Mademoiselle Ferrario's eyes with

the obedient, kindly look of a dog! The entertainment wound up
with a tombola, or auction of lottery tickets: an admirable

amusement, with all the excitement of gambling, and no hope of gain
to make you ashamed of your eagerness; for there, all is loss; you

make haste to be out of pocket; it is a competition who shall lose
most money for the benefit of M. de Vauversin and Mademoiselle

Ferrario.
M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of black hair, a

vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that would be delightful if
he had better teeth. He was once an actor in the Chatelet; but he

contracted a nervousaffection from the heat and glare of the
footlights, which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis

Mademoiselle Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar,
agreed to share his wandering fortunes. 'I could never forget the

generosity of that lady,' said he. He wears trousers so tight that
it has long been a problem to all who knew him how he manages to

get in and out of them. He sketches a little in water-colours; he
writes verses; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent long

days at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling a line in
the clear river.

You should hear him recounting his experiences over a bottle of
wine; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with a ready smile at

his own mishaps, and every now and then a sudden gravity, like a
man who should hear the surf roar while he was telling the perils

of the deep. For it was no longer ago than last night, perhaps,
that the receipts only amounted to a franc and a half, to cover

three francs of railway fare and two of board and lodging. The
Maire, a man worth a million of money, sat in the front seat,

repeatedly applauding Mlle. Ferrario, and yet gave no more than
three SOUS the whole evening. Local authorities look with such an

evil eye upon the strolling artist. Alas! I know it well, who have
been myself taken for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on the

strength of the misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a
commissary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, who

was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon the singer's
entrance. 'Mr. Commissary,' he began, 'I am an artist.' And on

went the commissary's hat again. No courtesy for the companions of
Apollo! 'They are as degraded as that,' said M. de Vauversin with

a sweep of his cigarette.
But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, when we had been

talking all the evening of the rubs, indignities, and pinchings of